Refuge
by BushRat8
Summary: A recounting of the day Barbossa discovers and visits Grantham House for the very first time, and meets a shy young maidservant who impresses him with her cooking. Several years pre-CotBP.


**A/N** : Although Grantham House and Sophie are introduced, this story does not belong to the Innkeeper arc; rather, it's a transition into it, with an overlap that you'll recognize if you've read the first short section of _Ruination_ ; this time, from Barbossa's point of view.

 _Sangaree_ was much like Sangria — red wine and citrus fruit — except that it originated in the Caribbean.

-oOo-

 **REFUGE**

-oOo-

Barbossa is weary, so very weary, and suddenly cannot abide the thought of the taverns to which his men are rushing; can't bear, on this night, the idea of crowds or noise, or the smell of sweaty men as they carouse with overperfumed women; is sickened by the thought of greasy food and stale drink. _There mus' be somewhere a worn-out traveler might have a fine, fillin' meal in more genial comp'ny afore he lays down his head,_ he thinks.

He approaches a fisherman still busy with sluicing the muck of scales and fishguts out of his dory. "Ho!" he calls sharply.

The man starts, alarmed by this tall stranger and wondering what he might have done to drawn his attention. "Aye?"

He need not have worried, for Barbossa only wants information. "Yer brothels an' roomers here be full up, an' in any case, I'm wantin' quieter digs. Have ye a recommend for where I might find a clean room an' good food?"

The fisherman breathes a sigh of relief now that he knows the sword at Barbossa's side will stay strapped where it is, and he won't find himself faced with his pistol. "See that, up on th' hill?" he asks, pointing. "That's Grantham House. Old Nan Grantham'll have a room for ya, an' I hear her food's th' best for eight islands around; not that I'd know, as I can't afford her rates!" He grins. "'Course, you'd not have that problem." Then he adds, "Though everyone knows Old Nan don't allow women up there — not workin' ladies, at any rate — so if it's sport you're wantin', you'd best stay in town."

That's not a concern for Barbossa at the moment, and, "Grantham House," he repeats. "Thankee for that." He presses a silver piece into the man's palm, then turns and begins his journey up the steep lane; a journey that will ultimately take him farther than he has any idea, but he no more has a crystal ball into his future than anyone else, and so only knows that his back and legs are aching; that he's desperate for a hot meal in his belly; that he'd give anything for a comfortable bed, a soft pillow, and a long, uninterrupted sleep.

-oOo-

-oOo-

Barbossa examines the building as he draws near, finding it to his liking. There are flowers in window boxes and carpeting the front garden, the stone path to the door has been swept, and the walls were whitewashed not long ago. _Like Mum used to keep our cottage,_ he can't help thinking.

There's a hand-painted sign in the window: ROOMS AVAILABLE. NO LOCAL WOMEN ALLOWED. For a moment, he wonders if he should just go in as in any other roomer, when he decides to put on his manners and ring the bell.

A woman answers. In her youth, she might have been pretty, but too much hard work and an ill-temper have combined to put frown lines on her face and make her look older than her fifty or so years. "Looking for a room, are you?" she asks.

"Didn't walk all th' way up here jus' t' pass th' time of day," Barbossa replies. "I'm wantin' a room for at least a week, an' ye'll have five of those days paid aforehand."

That's not something the landlady hears often, and she steps aside to usher him in. "Three meals a day come with the price of a room," she tells him. "If you'll sign the ledger, please…"

Barbossa dips the quill and carefully signs his name and title. "So, how much will ye be wantin' each night?"

In the storeroom, the maid-of-all work is astounded to hear the landlady quote a price that's half again as much as she usually charges. She's even more astonished when their guest doesn't argue, but pays his five days in advance in a clink of gold. "While you may bring in whatever drink you prefer, I do have one rule: no women," the landlady goes on. "I run a respectable house…"

"… and ye'll get no argument from me 'bout that," Barbossa finishes for her. "I'm wantin' good food an' a restful sleep, but should I be hankerin' for somethin' else" — he shrugs — "there be a whole town t' visit for that."

"Follow me, then."

Before he can go upstairs, Barbossa becomes aware that he's being watched by a pair of wide black eyes belonging to the young maid, who's come out of the storeroom and is now peeking at him.

"Shoo!" the old woman calls. "Get back into the kitchen with you!" But the girl isn't fast enough, and Barbossa has time to flash her a smile before she disappears. _A pretty child,_ he thinks, although it's merely an aesthetic observation; he has no designs upon her, for she's too young and never in his life has he thought to make sport with children.

As for the girl, she's fascinated by him: by his height and proud bearing, by the way he walks (is that a limp she sees?)… even by his hat, with its lush blue and brown plumes, set atop long, thick auburn hair and a plait that snakes down his back. Most of all, though, she's transfixed by his brilliant blue eyes, and in the back of her head, she knows she'll be seeing them when she dreams at night of adventures she'll never have.

 _'Capt. H. Barbossa,'_ she reads once the new guest has gone and she comes out to surreptitiously see who the ledger says he is. _Hm._

She doesn't have time to consider him further, as her grandmother has charged her to choose the menu and prepare dinner on her own tonight; the first time she's done so. As it's the meat she's least likely to ruin, she's selected citrus-and-pepper-seasoned roast chicken, accompanied by bread and butter and cheese; and although men seem never inclined to eat them, she'll prepare a dish of sliced carrots with rosemary and melted butter and honey, all roasted together in the big iron pot so that the edges turn brown and deliciously sticky.

If only she didn't have to serve as well, for she's an awkward little thing, the trays are so big, and she can only pray that nothing untoward happens.

-oOo-

-oOo-

The room to which Barbossa is shown is bright and airy, and simple in its furnishings; in all ways, the exact opposite of the dark, smoky cabin in which he spends too much of his life. The window looks out over the back garden, and he notes a hammock strung between two trees; perhaps he'll ask if he might stretch out in it for an hour or two on the morrow. There are citrus trees heavy with fruit, too — lime, lemon, and orange — and Barbossa's mouth begins to water. If the landlady doesn't reserve it all to sell in the market, surely some of that lovely fruit will end up on the table.

He sheds his coat and hat; after a moment, he removes his belt, sash, waistcoat and boots, which leaves him feeling light and unconstricted, and he stretches, yawning. While functioning on little sleep and under barbarous conditions is Barbossa's normal daily lot, being able to fully relax takes a bit of getting used to.

He tries out the bed, finding it a pleasant combination of firm and yielding, and long enough that he doesn't have to curl up his tall body in order to fit, but doesn't yet close his eyes; if he does, he'll drop promptly off to sleep and is likely to miss dinner. Instead, Barbossa enjoys a moment or two of rest on the crisp sheets, then gets up again and puts his waistcoat back on.

There's a small mirror by the washstand, in which he examines himself. His eyes are tired, his face red and rough — the fair English skin hidden under his clothes was never made to take the strong sunlight glaring off the water — but being exhausted and sunburnt is no more than any other sailor might be, and he doesn't look as bad as all that.

In the moments before supper is called, Barbossa refreshes himself with cool water from the jug on the washstand, splashing a bit into his eyes, passing the cloth over his face and chest, and using the sliver of soap to clean off as much of the grime as will be removed from his hands. He's used to being dirty, true, and Nan Grantham is just as used to hosting sailors, but he's not without manners and doesn't wish to bring more shipboard filth to the table than he has to.

Hat and coat donned, and feeling at least modestly presentable, Barbossa goes downstairs to find everything set and ready for himself and the three other lodgers already seated. "As you're a captain, you'd honor my house if you'd sit there," Old Nan says, indicating the head of the table. "The maid will be out with the food in a moment… Sophie! Sophie, where are you, girl? We've hungry guests waiting!"

The little maid Barbossa saw earlier comes out of the kitchen with a wooden platter loaded with beautiful chickens that smell like heaven, their skins roasted crispy and brown; a platter far too large and heavy for her to manage. "Sir?" she says, her voice trembling, as she clumsily presents it to him, nearly dropping the whole thing into his lap.

He can't help but laugh as he turns sea-blue eyes to her dark ones, budging aside so she can push the platter onto the table, making no comment when a dribble of grease runs off the edge to stain his waistcoat. "Well, young Missy," he says, and his voice is humored and in no way unkind. "What's a little thing like you doin' wrestlin' chickens six at a time? Looks t' me like ye're a mite outmatched."

The maid's cheeks turn hot red as she blushes and stammers, "Beg pardon, sir," then flees back to the kitchen.

Though everyone at the table is laughing, this does not amuse Old Nan in the slightest. "She'll get a thumping; that, I promise," she tells Barbossa as she comes forward to lift up the tray.

But Barbossa won't hear of it. "If ye'd keep me custom, then ye'll not do any such thing," he replies, helping himself to a chicken, then looking into the carrot dish, eyebrows raised as he breathes in its sweetness, and taking several spoons full. "Yer little Sophie be but a young thing yet, an' has not her full strength. She done as well as she could, an' that be good enough for me." He looks around the table. "Eh, gents?"

"Aye!" "Aye!" "Indeed: aye!"

After his first bites of the peppery, lemony chicken and honeyed carrots, Barbossa sighs in delight. "Did ye make this, landlady?" he asks Old Nan. "Fam'ly recipe, p'raps?"

She shrugs. "Family recipe, aye, but no, it was Sophie made it. Her first time, too, so I hope it's not too displeasing."

"Displeasing?! Hardly!" Barbossa forks in several more mouthfuls; sucks the meat off a leg bone. "Ye may convey me best compliments t' yer young cook for th' finest meal I've had in a very long time, an' m' especial thanks for th' sweet carrots." From the corner of one blue eye, he catches a glimpse of the little maid as she peers around the door of the kitchen; sees the surprise on her face. "She could not ha' known, but I grew up with a dish much th' same, made for special occasions."

The main course finished, Sophie comes back from the kitchen bearing a large bowl piled high with oranges; the same beautiful fruit that Barbossa saw on the trees in the garden. "Ah now, there's naught as finishes a good meal like a sweet orange," he says, taking two, the skins releasing a soft spray of fragrant oil as he begins to peel them. "Goes well wi' red wine t' make a fine sangaree, too," he adds, squeezing the juice from a segment into his goblet before eating the flesh.

The men sit around the table for some time longer, drinking and eating the oranges, before going their separate ways for the evening. It's not terribly late, and Barbossa could go off in search of a woman if he wanted to, but he's worn out, and an hour or two of solitude before sleep is just what he's after. "What be up th' hill, landlady?" he asks Old Nan.

"Hmph, not much. The well. Some rocks. A lot of nettles if you don't watch out."

"I'll stay t' th' path, then."

Barbossa goes outside, stops, then turns to his right and carefully picks his way along the path. Sure enough: he finds the inn's well, and a group of flat rocks big enough to sit on.

The night air is cool and the view he has from where he sits is a beautiful one — the sea, the ships in the harbor, the flickering lights of the town — and he finds refreshment in just gazing at it; in listening to the faint sounds of life. Were he in the midst of it, he knows he'd be hearing the sound of brawls much more clearly and smelling the stink of the mucky lanes, but up here, it all seems so clean.

Slowly, the tension of the past several months begins to lift as Barbossa relaxes, humming under his breath a Portuguese nursery song that his father use to sing to him when he was growing up. They were both big ones for song, were his parents, and they passed that love to their children: the girls were always singing, and as for Hector, he would learn every sea ballad and chantey there ever was.

Presently, he gets up and returns to the inn. "Might I ask if ye've an extra candle or two, for I wish t' read awhile afore sleepin'," Barbossa says to Old Nan.

It's an easy enough request to accommodate, and, "I'll send Sophie up with them directly."

He's torn between wanting to say that it's late and surely the child must need rest before her next day of work begins, and being pleased that he might have a moment to speak to her; to tell her again how much he enjoyed the supper she cooked. Finally, he decides that he needn't keep her long; that he can pay her the compliment, then urge her along to her bed. "Thankee."

The maid is not long in coming, three large beeswax candles in her hands. "You wanted these, Captain, sir?"

"Aye… Sophie, is it?"

She nods, blushes, hangs her head.

Barbossa smiles, and although she's too young to engender a man's desire in him, there's still something about her that charms him. "Shall it be just that, or are ye named somethin' more formal?"

"Sophia, sir. Sophia Grantham."

"Grantham?" Barbossa's eyebrows go up. "So, ye share a name wi' this house. Might I be right in thinkin' ye're kin t' th' old woman?"

"Nan's my grandmother."

"Ah." He takes the candles, fingering their smoothness. "Well… ye've m' thanks for these, Miss Sophia, an' if ye did not hear me at th' table, I'll say again that yer dinner were a fine one an' most 'ppreciated. Now run along t' yer rest, an' if yer Gran wants t' argue, ye may tell her 'tis by my order, for I see sleep about t' overcome ye."

"Thank you, Captain." Sophie gives him a smile of pleasure that he enjoyed his supper, and also that she should be addressed so politely, for she never is. "And you're welcome."

Barbossa watches her go, grinning at the slight figure trotting along the corridor, before closing the door and lighting a new candle from the old before it burns down; then, stripping off everything but his shirt, he settles comfortably into bed for a read, dropping, within minutes, into the best sleep he's had in months.

-oOo-

-oOo-

"Where be yer Sophie?" Barbossa asks Nan Grantham as he's settling his final bill.

The old woman looks quizzically at him, for what should a sea captain want with a maid, excepting the obvious? "I sent her to the tavern for wine," she replies.

"A tender young thing like that, an' ye're havin' her go 'mongst drunkards?" Barbossa tsks, disapproving. "She has more'n plenty t' do here, an' that be rough enough; must ye risk her honor in such a way?"

"No one will touch her, Captain; they know the house she belongs to."

 _Ye talk like she were a whore an' this, a brothel._ "I bain't worried 'bout th' ones as know her. I be worried 'bout th' ones as don't."

"What is your interest in the child?"

If the landlady thinks to take Barbossa aback, it doesn't work. "Not what ye think, so ye may give yer thoughts a scrub t' clean 'em of filth," he says, annoyed. Then his voice gentles. "But I like her: I've seen her t' be quiet an' quick about her work; when asked t' be of service, she's willin' an' kind; an' her cookin' be fit for the gods." He opens his purse and takes out a gold coin. "This is for her, an' I want not t' find out she weren't given it when next I come back."

Nan's eyes turn greedy as she reaches for it. "I'll keep it for her."

"Ye'll not." Barbossa pulls the coin back, knowing that Sophie won't see one glint of it if her grandmother gets hold. "I'm thinkin' I may yet wait awhile an' have a smoke in the parlor until she returns."

-oOo-

-oOo-

It isn't long before Sophie appears, pushing an old wheelbarrow with a dozen bottles. "What in the world have you been doing with the Captain?" Old Nan hisses angrily, cuffing her on the ear. "Or perhaps… what's he been doing with _you?_ "

Sophie hasn't any idea what she's talking about. "Wh-what?"

"Seems he's trying to pay you for something…!"

Barbossa needs sharp ears on his ship to know everything that goes on, and that sharp hearing serves him well now. "Well, now," he says loudly, to break up the exchange as he moves to the kitchen entrance. "Have ye been dawdlin' about yer errand, young Missy?" He takes in how winded Sophie is; sees that she's been struggling with something too much for her size and strength. _Old bat be drivin' her like a slave,_ he thinks, though he cannot say it if he ever wants to be welcome at the inn again. "Or mayhap th' hill were just a bit easier t' go down than t' come back up again, eh?" He's still got the coin in his hand, and now he extends it. "This be for you, in thanks for yer hard work an' fine cookin'. 'Tis yers t' spend or keep, as ye wish, an' when I return t' this house" — he eyes Old Nan — "p'raps I'll ask what use ye made of it."

Sophie has never held a piece of gold before, and she's afraid to take it. "I… I thank you, Captain, but… I cannot accept."

Barbossa regards her for a moment, wondering why she should be so averse to taking his gift, until he realizes what the problem might be. "Tain't payment for things a maid of yer years should not be givin', Missy," he reassures her. "'Tis but a 'thank you,' kindly meant, but if ye should prefer simply t' hear th' words, then… Miss Sophia, I do thank you." He puts the coin away, knowing now that it will probably cause more trouble for Sophie than it's worth, and will never end up in her hands anyway. "I must away now, but I'll be comin' back this way next year, an' when I do, I 'spect that ye'll make that fine peppered chicken an' sweet carrots of yers for supper at least once."

Now _that's_ a thank you Sophie can understand, and although she is shy in the face of such compliments, her smile is one of pure delight. "Thank you, sir. I will."

She stands silently, watching Barbossa go through the front door and disappear, sorry that it will be long, if ever, before she sees him again. Then she's brought back to the present when her grandmother smacks her, snapping, "Stop mooning about, girl, and go clean up his room to make it ready for the next lodger!"

While at the bottom of the hill, Barbossa turns and looks up at the whitewashed building where he's spent so many pleasant days, thinking of the clean, bright room, the kind little maid, and the good food he's had, pleased to know he's found a quiet refuge to which he may retreat from now on whenever he has the chance to return.

-oOo-

FIN

-oOo-


End file.
